Flower Boy

The night was getting dark as the hours crept towards Midnight, but the people's needs were darker, so dark they appeared unseen, and Oliver was a testament. The man who swiped the wallet called for his undivided attention; walking amongst the few other nocto-freaks who roamed the streets at night with a smug look on his cheap face just before he crossed the road, no one in his shoes would shame this slimy stranger for his current choice, seeing as he got away with a thick and fancy wallet, who wouldn't feel lucky?

Oliver smiled having a knowing feeling that he was going to have fun tonight, starting with him.

But the night was still young,

he figured he might take his time.

He tailed the thief with his eyes to a dinky and rusty yellow lemon of a car, which Oliver figured either belonged to said lowlife or rather a car that he saw fit to steal at some point. He spotted the car ten feet away from the shadows cast by the lamp post as the stranger made his way across from the dodgy alley way as he scattered throughout the dark perpendicular alley way next to the gas station and crossed the road like a mangy cat. He must of come from a bar downtown not far from here as well, Oliver knew for sure, that if he were close enough to the scruffy looking stranger he would probably smell the stench of booze on his pathetic, possibly perverse, putrid persons; he bet on it for kicks.

Letting the now, excitement get the better of him as he makes his way to the car and follows within the shadows of the street he knew too well.

Assuming position in the backseat of the car in which case had questionable security or lack there of, as the layman took a quick detour to relieve himself amongst garbage.

Lying dormant and waiting, what feels like minutes pass in this quiet and dim alley when finally, Oliver's victim comes.

The dark and quiet alleyway in this shaded place alert him with faint foot steps that echo as they inch closer.

"No one can hear you out here...", Oliver said as he waited for that little ray of hope to wither and die within the stranger's pale brown eyes as the life drained from his pink skin, while Oliver spoke dramatically from the shadows purposefully to imitate a super villain. And once he stepped closer into view to reveal to the crook the freckled baby face of death, he then slid his hands around the man's cling wrapped up form; finding the feeling of tightly bound skin in plastic fascinating, running his digits around despite the man's disapproval as he swallowed hard. Oliver then traced up his body from bellow his waist until he reached his face and removed the tape from his mouth, immediately the crook screamed for help, regardless of what Oliver had told him. And to Oliver there has always been something about the sound of screams that which he personally found irritating, a surge of rage that was always triggered by it even if he was the cause, he had no sympathy for it and he hated it when they screamed. He felt that they always took the fun out of his little projects, he thought that they couldn't handle pain and that they were weak. Making it one of the reasons he takes the liberty to tell them that no one can hear them, not merely for his own entertainment.

Although some of their reactions were just that...

He had decided to cut things short as some strange punishment and reached calmly for his slightly rusty cleaver from a display cabinet - along with a few other tools from their compartments near the operating table. He ran the cold stainless steel blade down the nude man's outer thigh, making him flinch as the steel felt so cold, it stung.

"W-what the Fuck is hapPenIng? WhEre are My cLothEs? WHAT Do you fuCking WANT?!", are the things amongst more that the man sobbed and spat as he bared his teeth at Oliver out of fearful rage as if his scared little hisses were enough to ward Oliver off; who naturally ignored him.

The man's nonstop whimpers of confusion made Oliver grow tired of hearing him. And in a wave of frustration, he put the exquisite butcher knife to the man's throat and leaned in closely;

"Ssshhhh sh sh.", he whispered softly, " None of those things are important.", he then straightened himself while still glaring down at this stranger's Hazel eyes and continued:

"Did you know that you can train your brain to not feel pain? Well, it must be true, it rhymes..", he joked.

"Many monks for decades dedicate themselves and their time to experience excruciating challenges with patience in order to gain understanding of where it comes from.", Oliver stated this as he waltzed around the wiggling stranger - running the blunt end of the cleaver down and around his hairy chest that rose and fell quickly with heavy and almost tearful eyes.

Oliver then placed the cleaver on top of him, leaving it there as he silently left to get the ductile tape again and using it to cover the crook's mouth one last time.

"'Pain is but a message that the mind can master...' But we are so blind that we remain completely consumable...", Oliver said as the stranger's wild eyes widened to the horror of unexpected or rather unwanted pain. Oliver then gently patted down the tape on the stranger's lips before he leaned in close and kissed them while still covered as the stranger dry heaved.

Turning away on his heel with a content smile;

"Don't worry though, I didn't bring you all this way to torture you. You mean too little to me for that...", Oliver leaned in again and whispered, "You wanna know why you're really here?", the man shook his head no like a scared child as Oliver combated his refusal with a perverse nod and smile. He then took the cleaver and ever so slightly jammed it into the crook's thigh, causing him to cry muffled screams and thrash against his restraints.

His feet quivered as he soiled himself.

"You're special, you know that..? And yet somehow, there are so many like you.", Oliver said condescendingly over the panicked whimpers of a man twice his age;

"Sh sh sh, what makes you special was inside you all a long.", Oliver grins as he bit his lip, the fun for him has just started.

3:30

'That didn't last as long as I wanted it to...' , Oliver thought having done his work or rather his art, he expected someone of this stranger's size to put up more of a fight with life rather than to just give in to shock, this made way for disappointment as the buzz was gone.

So he popped a pill and it slowly made him feel better.

He cleaned the scene of blood and viscera and dumped what was left of the body in a bath of hydrochloric acid that he let breath like decanted wine and had prepared earlier within a bath tub. Cleaning up and off as well as clearing out while he waited for the meat to fall off the bone like chicken in stew water if it were left too long, and cleaning out the brain with a rusty spoon.

And once the body was done, he put on his hazmat suit and washed the corrosive liquid off of the now clean skeleton along with any viscera that clung. Having left the other room as it was before... Dusty and seemingly untouched. Only to enter another room filled with skeletons in chairs and in poses that even a rational artist would find aesthetic and visually pleasing.

But would leave them questioning their own sanity.

Dried roses of many kinds and an assortment of other lovely smelling flowers flooded the room both dead and nearly alive, the scent filled Oliver's nostrils along with dust follicles as it reminded him of why he really does this, walking in with his new companion piece by piece; now stripped of his radioactive attire.

Oliver then placed the skelington on a broken vintage dinning room chair in a masculine position with it's rib cage resting on the broken back of the seat, taking a step back to reflect on the bony gentlemen's arrangement of seating, slightly tilting his head as he examines the slouching of the now headless corpse. Preparing himself to get to work as he rolls up his sleeves, taking another look at his exquisite new model and pulled another chair from seemingly nowhere, placing it next to his silent friend; fiddling in his trusty old tool box before pulling out a glue gun, an electric drill, a screwdriver and a few nine inch screws along with a battery powered drill.

Now prepared to begin, he starts with the pelvis, then spine and works his way towards the skull in peace. Gluing, drilling and screwing things in place to fit the picturesque idea that he had in his mind.

And once done, he takes another step back to examine the new position of the corpse - which sat as if thinking as it gazed upon a temporarily invisible flower that Oliver then replaced with a freshly picked new one from a dirty vase of unchanged flower water, with a somber look etched on the silent one's thin and hollow face that gave the over all impression of it's undead serenity.

"Beautiful...", Oliver whispered to it as he tilted his head in admiration, feeling as though he had done his work.

Oliver finished by gluing dried up baby breaths here and there, intertwining them with bone as if they grew on the corpse and placed his artwork near a cloudy window, not able to take his eyes off of their beauty. He sometimes thought it a shame that he couldn't show off his work, knowing very well that the police would spoil his fun and peace, Oliver didn't want a pig tail. He figured that some day someone would find this place and do the tattle tale thing for him, he was too proud to boast, he knew they were breathtakingly beautiful...

Thirteen in all.

He then got up to leave taking the clothes of the forgotten stranger with him and on his way out, he felt the heaviness and the sound of something like a chain in the left pocket of the crook's tattered jacket and he reached into find the lady's wallet and the source of the sound.

Apparently after all, the car was in fact the crook's, but he took them as he stuffed the rest of the money and credit cards into his very own pocket; walking to the back of the house where he then gas lit and burned the clothes in an old metal drum that was once filled with acid which brought thick black smoke and bad body odor. And with the flame before him he lit a cigarette, took the keys and drove the lemon back to town, parking back in that dark place where he had found it before walking on home.

All in a good day's work.

Now, it can not only be that idle hands do the devils work...

But townsend life am I right?